


Statements Made Under Duress

by fractalsinthesky



Series: flint and tinder [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Nonbinary Dep, minor torture, updated with actual sex, what happens when you have no one to talk to irl about a new obsession?, you write over 13500 words of weird powerplay with unsubtle allusions to your backstory headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-06 20:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsinthesky/pseuds/fractalsinthesky
Summary: Sharky gets a Bliss bullet and isn't happy when John tries to use him as a bargaining chip to bring the Deputy back from across the Henbane, but would be lying if he said he wasn't flattered that it works. Written because I really wanted to see them interact in canon and also had Feelings about John's backstory without excusing him from what he's done. Also wanted to practice close third with Sharky because it's fun as hell.





	1. Chapter 1

When they’d radioed askin’ for a pickup over at Lorna’s Truck Stop, he’d thought it’d just be a quick ride from Dunagan’s, followed by a long afternoon of stolen sixpacks coolin’ in the river and the lazy swish of fishing line casting out, glinting gold in the slanting sun. 

May’ve been wishful thinkin’, but after running themselves ragged up and down Holland Valley, he’d started to feel like they’d earned a day or three to just put up their boots and lick their physical and emotional wounds. And nothing paired better with spiritual catharsis than some fat fish crispin’ up on the grill and a cold beverage in your hand. And another at your feet. And, ideally, a few more in a cooler that was sittin’ within armsreach. All that plus, like, a really nice bonfire, the kind that took like an hour to set up ‘cause you’re arrangin’ all the logs real careful so’s the whole thing doesn’t bitch out and collapse once the flames get going, and you can just sit back and watch the sparks whip and eddy up into the darkening sky. Oh, and one of them retro boomboxes like in the movie with the guy from “Hot Tub Time Machine” back when he was hot, chewing up a cassette of some righteous oldies. And another beer. Really, that was the ultimate set-up for optimal metaphysical healing.

Barring like the most awesome chillaxin’ day ever, he’d figured they’d mosey around, gunning down drug runners along the river and those fucked up Angel dudes who were everywhere in Faith’s territory. They hadn’t been out east much since they’d freed up the prison, and they probably wanted to keep low until they were ready to hit her operation hard. Or maybe they needed to train their anger in a different direction, now that John Fuckin’ Seed had explicitly threatened that Hudson chick’s life for further silo-smashin’, outpost-crashin’ derring-do that Dep dared an’ did. He hadn’t asked and they hadn’t offered. They didn’t need to—the two of them could handle whatever came along, and they’d do it together with the wind in their teeth and also in their hair, like if Rambo had an endorsement with L’Oreal and also maybe Nascar—that was the kind of dynamic asskickin’ bond they’d forged, and he was content just to come when called and leave the expectations to daydream fodder for the drive over.

Problem was, he didn’t expect to get his shit wrecked at a roadblock on the way across the Henbane. He also didn’t expect one of them mouth-breathin’ Peggies to tap him with a fuckin’ Bliss bullet, like regular bullets weren’t bad enough, and then, like one of those petticoated Jane Austen ladies, him swoonin’ into their grimy arms. Just fainting dead away like Great-Aunt Susanna when her septic tank blew one fetid Thanksgiving of his childhood. By the time he blacked out he had a fairly good idea what to expect, but if someone had told him that morning that before nightfall he’d be ziptied to a chair, waking up in a dimly lit room to John Cocksucking Bastard Seed warbling the song from the end of “Dr. Strangelove" he’d’ve told them to go fuck themselves, and also maybe their mother. 

“Alright, you slimy little shitstain,” he slurred, shaking his head to clear the residual blurs and twinkles of Bliss-o-vision. “I’m not big on the S&M crap, so make it quick an’ don’t fuck up any of my actual tattoos.”

The youngest Seed exhaled shortly through his nose. One of those “too shallow and scornful to be an actual snort, but definitely too forceful to be a sigh”-type noises. Sharky got a lot of those.

“This isn’t a confession, Boshaw,” he said, walking deliberately from one side of the room to the other and back. His hands worked absently over something that caught the light in a distinctly knife-like way. “We’re not going to recount your sins, I’m not going to offer you a place with us to endure the Collapse, or salvation for your beleaguered soul, no—“

He pivoted smoothly, an insincere smile plastered on his face. The knife was displayed fully now, held almost coyly between the index fingers and thumbs of both his hands at chest level in a ‘ta-da’ effect so dramatically obvious it was painful.

“This is more of a …conversation.”

Sharky scowled. “The fuck you gotta bring me to your creepy murder sex dungeon for if you just wanna talk?”

“‘Creepy’…?” John echoed in vague indignation, brows knitting, but he shook his head slightly and gestured toward the walls with the knife. When Sharky squinted, he could see that they were wood—not the metal or concrete typically used in prepper bolt-holes. “We’re not in the bunker. And I don’t want to talk with you—you are a means to an end. By the Father’s merciful grace, hopefully an end to all this futile unpleasantness.”

“Yeah, okay dude, could you just get through your shit so I can go, then?” He tested the zip-ties securing his wrists to the arms of his chair. “Man, my pinkies are goin’ numb. All tingly and shit. Oh, and fuck you very much for the Bliss bullet, by the by. Got cottonmouth goin’ on like you would not believe.”

“Would you rather we have used a regular bullet?” drawled John, coming closer and using the tip of his knife to knock Sharky’s cap off. He ignored the petulant ‘yes’, pushing the heel of his palm against the other man’s forehead, tilting Sharky’s face up and studying it with calculating blue eyes. 

Not a fan of those eyes. Cold and flat and dead but also horribly knowing, like Coach Spencer from middle school after he’d caught Hurk and Sharky smokin’ Winstons back behind the gym an’ Hurk’d had the bright idea to lie when he’d asked them what they were doing. Eyes like that were not to be trusted. Eyes like that were just lookin’ for the cracks in you where they could really dig in and hurt ya, and they didn’t care how long it took to do it.

“Listen, uh,” he cleared his throat and looked up to the shadowed ceiling when those eyes snapped up to make furious contact. “Not that you’re not a good lookin’ dude, but I’d be much obliged if you took a few good steps back an’ outta my personal zone, if you don’t mind.”

John flashed him another empty smile and stood back up, tapping the flat of his blade against his thigh. “Where are they? Your friend, the deputy. Are they still skulking around the valley, killing indiscriminately and stealing everything their sticky fingers come across?”

Sharky shrugged and winced at the shooting discomfort in his wrists. “I dunno dickbag, why don’t you ask them?”

John hummed his displeasure, scratching at the nape of his neck. “You know, Boshaw, you might want to reconsider. I promise you, the sooner you tell me, the sooner I’ll stop.”

“Stop wh—”

John’s hand shot out, landing on Sharky’s cheek with a crisp smack and snapping his head to the side.

He blinked a few times, letting the sting fade before grinning up at the other man. “Okay, okay, guess I kinda did walk into that one. But seriously, you can go f—”

John hit him again. From the man’s reputation, he’d expected a grin, or for the blank mask to darken to violent thunderclouds, but he still looked…bored. Maybe this was just too vanilla for him.

He cocked his head. “Are you gonna switch it up at all, or is this about the limit of your—”

Another slap. Sharky’s ears were ringing.

“Is—is this one of them ‘turn the other cheek’ things, because—”

And again. This time one of the thick-banded rings he wore scraped a hot line across Sharky’s cheekbone.

“Okay, ow. But that’s gonna look super badass when it hea—”

Another, and this one made his chair wobble and little white lights fizz in and out around John Why-Won’t-Big-Brother-Respect-Me Seed’s figure. The other man was breathing more heavily now, flexing the hand he’d been using in the markedly one-sided fight against Sharky’s face. His cheek was throbbing, and he could feel the impressions of his teeth against the inside of his mouth. He grimaced and worked his jaw, glaring up at John.

“Fuck, dude, don’tcha think you’d know by now if they were still hangin’ around your neck of the woods?” He braced for another blow, but John held back, slight frown expectant.

“They just…left?” John asked, something tight and panicked under the skeptical tone. Those pale eyes darted, scrutinizing him with an uncomfortable intensity.

Sharky tried to shrug again and winced. Goddamn zip-ties. “We’ve pretty much been beatin’ feet eastways since you said that shit ‘bout Hudson. So, uh…good job, I guess. You got what you wanted.”

“What I wanted,” echoed John, eyes going distant again as he thought. Then he shook his head and laughed lightly. “You people just don’t listen, do you?”

His face tightened into a dark glower and he shoved out at Sharky’s shoulder, sending the chair crashing down on its side. Sharky yelped at the impact, the back of his arm pinched viciously between the concrete floor and unyielding iron.

“What I wanted?” yelled John, pacing away and raking frantic fingers through his hair. “I wanted them to stop! I wanted them to use that little spark of intelligence they have to finally listen to me! I wanted them to lay down their arms and come crawling back on their knees to accept their sins and beg me to grant them a chance to atone!”

He kicked over a small toolcart in the corner, and it crashed against the wall, loose screws and fastenings spilling out over the floor. He watched it, panting, back turned to Sharky who was trying to be as silent as possible, desperately smothering the many inappropriate questions and comments that were bubbling up in his brain. Filter, man, filter for the sake of God and maybe you can get outta this with all your parts. 

The harsh rushing of John’s breath in the small room ebbed, and his shoulders lost their tension. He turned back to Sharky, smiling mask back in place.

“Apologies for the outburst. It has been a…trying few weeks.”

“I’ll bet,” snorted Sharky, self-preservation instincts giving way to fond memories of the many, many explosions he had been fortunate enough to be involved with alongside the Deputy, who may or may not actually be some kind of chaos deity descended to Earth for the sole purpose of causing mayhem on an epic scale. Possibly affiliated with Hurk’s Monkey King, but as long as they kept letting him light shit the fuck up, he wasn’t gonna ask questions. 

John’s small smile thinned, and he strolled over, fancy boots scuffing inches from Sharky’s face. He seized Sharky by the shoulders and hauled him right-side up, fingers digging deep into his biceps. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing, not wanting to give the bastard any satisfaction.

“You do understand my position, then? Hm?” John’s face was uncomfortably close, gaze mocking, and his hands slid deliberately down Sharky’s arms to rest at his wrists, clasping them with surprising warmth. It’d almost be companionable, comforting, if not for absolutely everything else about the situation.

“Your ‘position’ has meandered right back into my personal space, is what I understand,” said Sharky, fighting the dual urge to snap his head forward and shatter the coke-weakened bridge of John’s nose, and to stare with unbridled curiosity at the soft fullness of his lips. Faith was a honey, but her brother—if they were even related—was a dish unto himself. Probably give you a wicked toilet jockey marathon a few hours later and maybe a virus or two, but the memories would last forever.

Sharky shifted uncomfortably, hoping he wasn’t chubbing visibly. Didn’t help that the guy obviously showered more often than like, anybody else he’d come across in the past fuckin’ month. If you asked him, it was a goddamn crime. Uh, considering all the resource theft, kidnapping, and outright murder the guy had done while managing to keep himself smelling like leather, woodsmoke, and fuckin’ laundry detergent, it probably _was_ an actual crime. John’s smirk widened, showing teeth, and Sharky remembered the shuddering sobs wracking the Deputy, tears and snot soaking his shirt as they told him about how the Baptist had held them under, about the echoes of laughter that had filtered down as their lungs filled and vision grayed, and that was it for that particular chub event. 

He went for the headbutt, but John jerked back, quick as a snake goin’ over coals downhill, and then he was upside down, cheek on fire and seeing stars. At least John’d switched over to punches—he would’ve felt like a little bitch if he came out of this with only a few slaps to complain about.

“Shit,” he declared to the ceiling.

“Why don’t you stay there a while, Boshaw,” muttered John from out of sight. Sharky heard him move away, doing something at the sidetable near the wall. “Let the blood flow down, and think long and hard about the misguided Deputy.”

“Thought you were the one doing that,” Sharky mumbled under his breath, but he’d never been very good at whisperin’, and the slight sounds of activity off to his right ceased with icy suddenness.

He braced for another attack, but after a few heartbeats of hostile silence and a terse sigh, the soft scrapes and shushes resumed. Sharky grimaced in disgust at the ceiling. It’d been fairly obvious that the Deputy had attracted more than John Hypocritical Dillhole Seed’s professional interest, but as fun as it was to joke about among friends on sunny hillsides between skirmishes, getting confirmation from the fucked up shitstain himself was neither necessary nor the least bit welcome. And, because he had a creative spirit and an active, inventive imagination, Sharky was now treated to visualizing each of those joked about masturbation fantasies with the horrifying thought that they may have actually occurred. He wondered if John My-Complexes-Have-Complexes Seed even knew the Deputy’s name, or if the man just gasped out ‘Deputy’ while he yanked it. Or, he wrinkled his nose, remembering what they had told him about the bunker, maybe he called for ‘Wrath’ when his eyes rolled up. He groaned and tapped the back of his head against the floor as a new question came unbidden—had the sick fuck been packing wood when he’d asked for their “confession”?

“Remember something, Boshaw?” John’s question was low and soft. “Something about our mutual friend, perhaps?”

“They ain’t your anything, a-hole,” replied Sharky, as defiantly as he could from his spot on the floor. That old protective heat was twisting up in his gut, and saying dumb shit was the only way he had to get it out. But boy if looks could kill, he’d have murdered the hell out of that ceiling by now. “Uh, unless you wanna say ‘doom’, or something like that. They’d be your doom for sure. With a side of curly fries and a couple to-go boxes.”

Footsteps approached deliberately, stiff soles landing with muted, staccato notes. 

“But they are,” drawled John, the practiced Public Speaking 101 cadence steadying his voice, “Your friend, are they not? Your ally in this self-destructive war?”

“Yeah, sure, we’re pretty cool. We hang out, you know, drink a few beers an’ kill a few guys.” Sharky wiggled in his seat, testing the zipties again as his head started to pound. No joy. “We do a lot of shit together, man. Probably gonna-gonna end up killing you together, if that’s what you wanna hear. Maybe go fishin’ after. Use your butt for bait. You know.”

“Uh huh.” John loomed over him, gazing down with distaste. “And they trust you? Confide in you?”

The flat, scornful inflection made him bristle defensively. “What is this, fuckin’ high school, man? We got shit to do and we do it. We don’t like, sit around and braid each other’s hair and-and write each other poetry and shit. Hard times, you gotta find people that have your back, and the Deputy an’ me? We got each other’s backs.”

John bent down, smirking coldly. “So where are they now?”

Sharky wanted to punch the smug look off the guy’s face, even jerked his arm up to do it, but the ziptie bit into his wrist and kept his hand uselessly secured to the chair. He settled for a confident smirk. “Probably on their way with the calvary in tow. Maybe they’re outside right now, crackin’ some Peggie skulls, minutes away from beating your pretty face to mush, Johnny boy.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” whispered John, pale eyes narrowed. He dug a boot in roughly under Sharky’s shoulder, levering up the chair a few inches. Sharky expected to be hauled up again, but instead the support fell away without warning. His head cracked back against the floor, and his gut turned over queasily.

John crouched down beside him, hands dangling loosely from his knees. Eyes like chips of glacier ice looked him over, flushed and indignant head to mud-crusted sneakers waving in the air, and settled back on his face with something dangerously close to interest. “Maybe I can spare some time to hear your sins, Boshaw. You haven’t been cleansed yet, but that’s alright—we can get to that later. You certainly aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

“I dunno, man,” said Sharky, hoping the fear that was threading up his spine wasn’t visible. “I mean, feels kinda funny like this. I can see up your nose from this angle, and that’s kind of ruining the vibe? Like, how am I supposed to really, uh, unburden myself when I’m laying on the floor and hoping you don’t breathe out too hard and drop a crusty one in my eye, you know?”

John’s brows knit into a brief frown, but quickly smoothed out again, that small, confident smile sliding easily back onto his lips. “When one is so thoroughly immersed, so inundated with and utterly worn down by their sins, one may think themselves as abysmally low to the ground as the lightless, soulless insects that live out their short and meaningless lives in the dirt. So it is not entirely inappropriate that your path to redemption begins this way--on the ground and on your back.”

“So like, how many Hail Marys for an inundation? Five, six…?”

John closed his eyes, beatific smile frozen. “The first step is the most difficult one—it takes a great amount of courage, of willpower, to cast aside the blindfold of complacency and to truly see yourself as you are. To see the weakness, the flaws, the sin. To see all this, and then choose to accept it as a part of yourself.”

He opened his eyes, and they were dead again. Flat. Staring through Sharky’s with the fog of delusion. His hands drifted gently back to Sharky’s shoulders, pressing over the bruises left from before. “To accept your imperfections and then choose to rise above them.”

He pulled Sharky back upright, and cupped his face in wide, dry palms. Sharky swallowed, afraid to disrupt the trance that John was in, and strangely rapt by the insistent rise and fall of the other man’s voice.

“That choice,” said John, unblinking, “begins with one word, and you know it already. You say it a hundred times a day, speak it to death, letting it fade to obscurity in a thousand banal uses, but when you make the choice, mark the transition from sin to repentance, that word becomes suffused with the light, the love, the strength of God, and it will lift you up.”

He paused, passing a thumb over the scratch on Sharky’s cheek, and the fugue lifted from his eyes, a curious light in its place. His lips compressed and he leaned back, spreading his hands in an encouraging gesture and arching his brows expectantly, smiling like a salesman at the end of a pitch.

“Are you ready, Boshaw? Will you take that step, make that choice, say that word with me now and start your journey toward a new life and a clean soul?”

“Uh…yeah, I guess,” said Sharky, still shaken by the contact and the fervent rhythm of John Batshit Crazy Seed’s speech.

John frowned.

“Oops, uh—yes?” If nothing else, it’d buy him time. A rough guess at how long he’d been out put him almost five hours tardy for meeting the Deputy at the truck stop, and since they hadn’t been able to get ahold of him via radio, they probably knew something was up.

“Good,” breathed John, looking almost relieved. “Now, talk to me about your sins, and we can begin working towards carving them free of your soul.”

Sharky did not like the sound of ‘carving’ but in all honesty a scar etching out one of the seven big no-nos would probably look a lot cooler than an amateur tattoo. “Like, which is my favorite? Because that’d be pretty tough, man. Not gonna lie, I am a big fan of most all of ‘em. Probably not wrath, though—I don’t really think of myself as an angry person, and like, I’ve been workin’ on expressing negative emotions in, uh, in a positive way? So probably not wrath.”

John nodded, but there was an impatient set to his mouth, so Sharky moved on.

“Uh, envy? I mean, every now and then, I guess. Do we gotta go through every single—”

“We are attempting to identify the primary sin that has driven you to this… state beyond grace,” said John, folding his arms and reciting. “Although you may have other kinds of sin weighing on you, this practice aims to alleviate the greatest detriment to your life and spiritual condition. Once the first great sin has been exposed through confession, its burden may be lifted from you through atonement. If other sins persist and prevent you from living your life as the Father has revealed is the right and righteous way, then they too must be faced and purged through this process.”

Sharky let out a low whistle. “Goddamn, dude, you mean to tell me you got folks getting tatted and flayed, healing up and then actually coming back to do it again? Holy shit.”

“You aren’t—I’m…” John sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Leaving the corruptions of the outside world behind is a difficult process, yes, but every hard choice we make now will help us to survive the Collapse and will make us worthy of Paradise. Every labor, every pain we undertake today keeps us steady on the path and ensures our future.”

“Okay, so…” Sharky thought about his life. Regrets, mistakes, missed opportunities. “Nope, I’m good. I’m uh, actually pretty happy with where I am now.”

A little vein throbbed in John’s forehead. “Really?”

“Mhm. Well—” Sharky shrugged, “I guess I’d like to be getting-getting laid more often, and like, have someone to share my life with and shit, but that’s on me and how I interact with people, you know? Not so much about doin’ stuff _wrong_ , per se.”

“Are all your actions… guided by the desire to have sex?” asked John, looking a little pained.

“Hey listen, compadre, not all of us have great metabolisms and fuckin’ discount Ryan Reynolds’ bone structure, okay?” scowled Sharky. “You’re over here lookin’ like you just stepped off of a Christian rock album cover, and like, your band isn’t even very good, but they’re popular because all the suburban soccer moms buy your shit so they can fantasize about fuckin’ you while they’re going through the motions with their balding husbands, who keep their socks on and only ever do missionary.”

John cocked his head. “That sounds like envy to me. Are you self-conscious about your appearance?”

“Nah, I just thought you were gettin’ a little judgy. Wanted to, uh, make the point that we got dealt different cards, is all.” Sharky squirmed in his chair, the tips of his ears feeling hot. “I do okay for myself, thank you very much. Doesn’t mean I can’t do better, but uh…that is life.”

“And what is ‘okay’ in your book, Boshaw?” John smirked, mockery seeping through the false smile. “When did you last act upon your carnal urges?”

Sharky laughed, and the other man’s smile faltered. “Oh boy, uh, I don’t think you really wanna know this stuff, do you? I mean, I could tell ya, but you’re-you’re really not gonna like what you hear.”

“Of course I’m not going to _like_ it,” hissed John, red blotches appearing in his neck and cheeks. “Observing confession is a sacred duty—the point is to make an objective catalogue of your sins and—”

“Alright, but remember that you asked to hear this, amigo,” Sharky grinned. Warning bells were thrilling at the back of his skull, but he was bored and it would be worth it to see John I’m-a-Ten-in-a-World-of-Sixes Seed’s face. “So about a week ago, I’m drinkin’ at the Spread Eagle and talkin’ up Mary May, right? ‘Cause that woman is fine as hell and she’s got that badass no-nonsense thing goin’ which I dig, but we haven’t talked much on account of how I used to be banned from the premises. An’ then we hear Dep call over the radio.”

John’s eyes lit up, fingers digging into his own arms, but his expression didn’t change, so Sharky continued.

“They’re in a bad way, right? Just got outta your fuckin’ bunker and reelin’ from a contact high from all those goddamn Angels you threw at ‘em. Can’t find their nose on their face, but they make it through a few miles of bear country to your stupid fuckin’ eyesore of a sign, and they want some serious ordnance to take it down.”

“Are you trying to make me angry?” asked John, insincere smile shrunk to Mona Lisa proportions, a manic light in his eyes. 

“It’s a fuckin’ story, man, you need the full context,” snapped Sharky. John snorted but motioned for him to continue. “Anyway, me an’ a couple others get in a chopper and head over, lugging a full fucking armory. By the time we get there, they’ve come down from the Bliss and have taken a lot of the sign out already by just climbing the scaffold and tearin’ the panels down, and they are _pissed_.”

“I remember,” John said, pupils widening. He nodded for Sharky to continue, putting a hand to his neck and stroking absently.

“So we help finish the job, and you have your little tantrum—” an angry blue flash at that, but now that he was talking about the Dep, John didn’t dare interrupt. “And they let out a long breath and say ‘let’s take back this fuckin’ valley’ and we say ‘hell yeah’ and start cruisin’, and just unleash hell.”

He took a breath, savoring the memory of grain silos engulfed in hungry flame, outposts routed and reclaimed, and ugly off-white Chosen planes spiraling down to earth in glorious conflagration. Ooh, and that convoy they’d taken out with the stolen oil tanker—that one had just about singed his beard off, but it'd been beautiful.

“Yes, I remember the bloody swath you and the Deputy cut through my valley,” said John, biting at each word as though he could transfer the intent to Sharky’s flesh. 

“Yeah, I bet you got hell from big brother for all that ground you lost, huh?” smirked Sharky, watching John’s fingers tense against his own throat, dragging deliberately across the vulnerable skin. He was playing with metaphorical fire now, but he didn’t care. “Anyway, we keep going like that for a few days, and start splitting forces to really dig in, and me an’ Dep stumble across one of them cleansin’ sites. Curtains wrapped around the trees an’ shit.”

He cocked his head, staring down the other man. “Thing is, this one’s familiar. They stop, wade out into the river, and just stand there for a bit. Just thinkin’. And then they say ‘Sharky’, and I say ‘what’s up, Dep?’ and they say ‘let’s torch this fuckin’ place’ and I say ‘fuck yeah, dude’ and we do. Piled all the cloth an’ pennants an’ hay bales up and we set that shit on fire and watched it burn from the river.”

John was breathing hard, nostrils flared, eyes thin rings of blue around jet pools. He said nothing.

“So, I like fire a lot, it’s uh, kind of my thing,” shrugged Sharky modestly, “And this is a good one—that shit caught quick but kept goin’ for a while, and between the river and the bank, there wasn’t much threat of it spreadin’ so we stayed. I’m cheering it on, and Dep is grinnin’, and then all of a sudden we’re holding hands—natural as you please. Rest of it’s pretty standard.”

John blanched. “You…?”

“Oh hell yeah, dude,” grinned Sharky smugly. “It was awesome. I mean, doin’ it in water is always kinda tricky, ‘cause of the friction, but it was easily one of, uh, of my top five sexual experiences.”

John’s hand loosened from his throat and drifted up, pulling at his beard with an urgency that Sharky could recognize as neurotic. He swayed a little, shifting his weight from hip to hip.

“You,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes sweeping him up and down as though they had missed something earlier.

“Mhm.” Sharky realized this may have been a little too overt, a little too reckless to deliberately go elbow-deep in the muddy waters of John’s fucked up semi-repressed sadomasochistic obsession with the Deputy, but to be honest, the rich boy could use a little delusion-shattering. “Y’wanna know how they taste?”

John started guiltily, making eye contact and looking for all the world like an animal in a trap, watching the hunter approach, the hollow desperation that could drive them to sacrifice limbs present but horribly too late, and Sharky was so taken aback by the expression that he almost missed the whispered ‘yes’.

The silence stretched between them, and Sharky felt the back of his neck crawl, unable to look away from the haunted vulnerability on the other man’s face. Then it was gone, shuttered by a blank rage, and John strode back to the side table, snatching the knife from its surface and advancing, wrenching Sharky’s head back and setting the edge to his throat. His breath buffeted against Sharky’s face and neck, hot and sickly sweet.

Sharky laughed, not caring that the knife bit at his Adam’s apple. He stared up into those darting blue eyes, daring him to do it. “That, uh, that sounds like envy to me, man.”

John grinned, wild and sharp, and leaned into the knife. “No one is immune to sin.”

_“John Seed. I know you’re out there. Is this your fucking mess?”_ A familiar crush of static from the side table stopped him, and John jerked away instantly, leaving Sharky to feel the hot trickle of blood trail down his neck. Aw, shit—another stain for his hoodie. John bumped the table in his urgency to answer the radio, and a few implements fell tinkling to the floor.

He depressed the button, sighing heavily into the speaker before answering. “Deputy. Bored with my sister already? I did warn you about her, you know.”

_“It’s been two days, John.”_ The Deputy sounded exasperated. _“You wanted me to stop, so I did. And you are still fucking with my people.”_

“Did you truly believe taking Hudson was enough?” hissed John. “Your sins are far too many to lay upon her shoulders alone. And the misguided souls you have falsely inspired are still interfering with the Father’s will.”

_“I thought we had an understanding. An understanding that I leave your territory, and you don’t do anything I’d have to kill you for.”_

John’s eyes slid closed, the tip of his tongue peeking out to moisten his lips. “I never asked you to leave.”

_“Let Hudson and Sharky go, and I’ll come back,”_ they offered. _“They don’t want a part of your Project—leave these folks in peace and we’ll show you the same respect, even after all you have done. It’s not too late, John.”_

John hummed. “You are a liar, Deputy. To yourself as well as me. You just can’t let go of your sin, of your wrath. Have you felt whole at any point in the last few weeks? Is your hunger sated when you cut down the innocent?”

_“Is yours, John?”_ they asked, low and bitter. _“Does the pain you inflict bring you comfort when the night finds you, alone and unwanted?”_

John bent over the side table, free hand grasping at the dusty surface. “I am never alone—my God is with me. He is with you, too, though you refuse to hear Him.”

_“John.”_ They sighed, resignation palpable through the static, and the Baptist closed his fist on nothing, knuckles whitening. _“I don’t want this.”_

“Then make a different choice,” he insisted, dark brows furrowing. “Make the right choice. Just. Say. Yes.”

_“You know I can’t.”_ They were quiet for a moment. Then, _“I want to hear from Sharky.”_

John scowled, glancing over at Sharky and then back to the table’s empty surface, a childish petulance to his movements. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

_“I found the ambush site. There were Bliss bullet casings, and your men didn’t move the truck.”_ They fell silent again, waiting for John’s response.

He ground his fist against the wood, rotating back and forth, working with enough force to show in his trembling arm. Sharky debated hollering when he next pressed the button, letting Dep know he was there regardless of what John decided, but ended up holding his tongue on the suspicion that any extra input from him could give John some ideas that wouldn’t end well. At last John sighed, slapping his palm on the table, and Sharky could see torn skin pale over his knuckles.

“Fine,” he hissed, and strode over, shoving the radio under Sharky’s nose. 

“Hey shorty,” said Sharky brightly. “Sorry for standin’ you up—I swear those dudes just came outta nowhere, man.”

_“You’re good, bud,”_ they answered with obvious relief. _“Nice to hear you runnin’ your mouth.”_

He felt a swell of satisfaction at the warmth in their voice, and just managed to stop himself from giving John a shit-eating grin. He settled for laughing at him in his head—see, asshole? They like me. They care about me. Me, ME—not you, you pompous, preenin’ fuck. He could still feel the hungry pull of their fingers at his back, in his hair, could still taste the salt of their sweat and hear the throaty rasp of their laugh, low and soft and fond in his ear. He got to experience that, could play it back over and over in his head, and the only time John Psychotic Shitheel Seed would ever get to touch them again would be if he was scrabbling for his life while they choked him out. And they were a damn good shot too, so even that was pretty unlikely.

The smugness must’ve shown in his eyes, though, ‘cause John curled his lip and brought the knife up, tracing the outline of his face.

“Happy, Deputy?” he sneered into the receiver. “You can have your toy back when I’m done playing with it.”

_“John,”_ they warned, a tremor of fear beneath the stern tone. _“Don’t.”_

John smiled, clearly savoring the crack in their facade. “Or? Don’t forget, I’ve got dear Deputy Hudson waiting up for me. I’d hate to have to hurt her because of you. Again.”

_“Resorting to these threats, John,”_ they said, with forced nonchalance. _“It’s not what I expect from you. They’re unimaginative. Graceless, really—I’m getting bored with them.”_

He smirked, eyes hardening. “Really, Deputy. I spent more than a few years practicing law. I can recognize manipulation.”

He flicked his wrist and Sharky blinked, taking a few seconds to register the pain.

“Oh fuck!” he spluttered, instinctively trying to raise his hands to his mouth. Goddamn zipties. He stared stupidly down at his lap, watching blood dribble down from the cut on his lips. He blabbered when he was nervous, but what with the nature of this new injury, he tried to clam up. Still, each whimper made his mouth sear, and the panicked, desperate gulps of copper-tasting air didn’t help.

John was holding that fucking radio out, broadcasting the stifled moans with a phonily sympathetic smile. When Sharky had gotten the shock under control and managed to focus his energies into silently staring daggers up at him, he let go of the button. He looked at the receiver in his hand for a while, waiting, then tsked and clipped it to his side.

“And so the hero goes charging in. I can’t respect the impulsiveness, but I’ll admit—the passion is something to behold.” He crouched in front of Sharky, cocking his head and surveying him as a painter would a blank canvas. “You may have their attention. Their time, even. Not their love. I have their heart in my hands. I want them, and all I have to do…”

He held up a hand and clenched it suddenly into a fist, knuckles white beneath black ink. His eyes were dead and his voice softened. “Is squeeze.”

Sharky tried to spit at him, but mostly ended up just letting a mouthful of blood fall down over his chest. A few drops managed to speckle John’s cheek and forearm, though, earning him a cold smile. 

“Envy, then. At least to start.” He leaned in close, setting the tip of the knife against the vee of Sharky’s sweatshirt where the sides of the hood tapered in, and started to cut, sawing slightly when the fabric stuck. Unhurried, even casual, as if he were cutting slices of bread from a goddamn fucking artisanal loaf. The fucker was humming under his breath.

Sharky wiggled and jerked, grunting in outrage, but John shushed him, putting a palm against the cut on his mouth. The salt of his sweat stung like a hornet on amphetamines, and he howled, trying to stamp his feet.

“Sh sh sh,” soothed John, putting the knife down and gripping the sides of the tear, wrenching it wider with a quick, violent motion that made Sharky think absurdly of a strip-tease. Except this was a reverse strip-tease. Well, wouldn’t a reverse strip-tease be the stripper putting more clothes on? Or like, putting clothes on other people, technically, he guessed, but the important thing was to keep his mind on strippers or shitty clubs or mopping up spilled beer at the dive he used to work at across the river or anything, anything other than John Makes-His-Own-Snuff-Films Seed setting to work on the sweat-stained t-shirt he didn’t even remember buying, those soulless eyes devouring each inch of skin he exposed, and oh fuck, his breath was coming faster, he could feel it against his chest, this goddamn bastard this sick fuckin’ puppy with the dead eyes of a White Walker was getting hot at the thought of carvin’ him up, and he couldn’t—

_“John Seed, I need you to talk to me,”_ buzzed the radio from John’s hip. _“John? Pick up. I said I need you.”_

He froze, fingers still against Sharky’s chest. He unhooked the radio from his belt and answered. “Deputy. I thought you were finished with our conversation.”

_“You know me. Chatty.”_ John smiled with unguarded fondness at the grim humor in Dep’s voice. _“I’ve got an offer for you.”_

“I don’t quite think you’re in the position to bargain, Deputy.” He frowned, picking at a stray thread on his cuff. 

_“Hear me out anyway.”_ They took a sharp breath. _“Sharky goes free—unharmed. You stop the plane patrols, and I come back to the valley.”_

He laughed. “How green of a cop are you? Have they put you through any sort of negotiation training? That is hardly a deal that I am motivated to make.”

_“Would you…help me, then?”_ they asked, slow and deliberate, and John’s eyes lit up. 

“That’s all I’m trying to do,” he replied, tone soliciting. His eyes were hooded, and Sharky scowled, wanting to scream at Dep not to listen, not to deal with a devil over anything, much less for someone like him. 

_“What, within reason, can I offer you?”_

“‘Within reason’ is an interesting qualification. There isn’t a great dearth of ‘reason’ to go around in Hope County,” mused John, scratching thoughtfully at the base of his neck. “I want you to finish your confession, Deputy. I want you to come to me, willingly, and accept the freedom only I can give you, and I want you to atone for the evils you have done. I want you to listen to the Father’s teachings with your heart open, and I want you to join us in the new Eden of your own volition.”

_“How about on a more immediate timescale, John?”_

“Hm. Evict your little ‘resistance’ friends from my home, cease attacks on Bliss transports, and come to a private confession at a location of my choosing. No weapons, no allies—just me, you, and the Lord’s sweet forgiveness.” He licked his lips, luxuriating in the silence from the radio he cradled below his chin. “I think you’re afraid of the pain, Deputy. Am I correct? I think you’re afraid to bare your sins, to let me draw them from you, one word at a time.”

Quiet. He gazed down at it tenderly, lips curling when it gave a sharp bleat of acknowledgement. His voice lowered, soft and intent as he continued. “It’s alright, Deputy. I understand the fear—the pain can seem terrible, as truth often is, but once you have borne the mark of your sins, you will know the peace of acceptance. Is it so terrible, to know yourself? To shine a hard light in the shadows of your soul and put a name to the weakness and horror? I promise you—I _promise_ you, Deputy. There is no greater release than to truly, wholly atone for your wrongs.”

_“We can pull out of Seed Ranch,”_ they answered at length, voice hoarse with more than static. _“We’re taking the weaponry, the vehicles, everything we can use or can keep from being used against us, but I can get the area cleared in three days and you’ll have your home back.”_

He hummed, nodding to himself as they continued, and Sharky jerked against his bonds, mouth on fire and a sinking feeling in his gut.

_“I’ll hold to the ceasefire in Holland Valley, but east of the Henbane and anything on the river is fair game. I’m…open to finishing the confession if you release Sharky now and Hudson afterwards.”_

“Boshaw walks free after both Seed Ranch is evacuated and you have completed your confession,” answered John smoothly, grinning over at Sharky, looking for all the world like a cat staring down at the mouse in its paws. “Call it collateral in light of your track record. Hudson stays with me until you atone.”

_“I’m not—”_ they huffed, aggravated. _“Sharky freed now, alive and well, as a gesture of good faith. I find someplace nice and private, and radio you my location. You have ten minutes to arrive, after which I will assume you’ve gone back on your word and have sent your attack dogs. I’ll give you one more chance afterwards, but then it’s off—I owe you nothing, and no retribution will be taken against the people of Holland Valley. Same deal on Seed Ranch and the Bliss stuff.”_

John did not look thrilled. “So suspicious. How about you come to me now, as you are, confess your sins alongside your unfortunate friend, and I refrain from giving the order to level Fall’s End?”

_“And what,”_ they responded quickly, _“Would Joseph think about that?”_

John’s lips thinned, eyes dulling. His fingers drifted to the knife sheathed at his belt, tracing the edges of the pommel. “Those sinners have had their chance and more besides. If you force my hand in this, I will lay a mountain of bodies at your door and speak each name in your ear while you sleep.”

Silence from Dep.

“Boy, y’sure do know how to charm the pants off a person, Johnny boy,” Sharky piped up, enunciating carefully to minimize the sharp protests of his lips. He didn’t know how deep John had actually cut him, but his mouth kept filling bloody spit, and choosing whether to spit or swallow his own fuckin’ blood every ten seconds wasn’t his idea of a good time.

John started as though he had forgotten the other man was there, shooting him a resigned glare. “I’ll take your tongue if you insist on wagging it further.”

“Not gonna win you any points with the Dep, though,” he shrugged, flexing his fingers. “Have you tried, uh, not being a creepy douchebag?”

John exhaled and raised the radio to his lips again. “Your little friend is trying my patience. I’ll take your word on the ranch and the Bliss if you come to me now—no weapons, no allies, no tricks—to finish your Confession.”

Sharky’s brows flew up. Did he really think they’d take a stupid risk like that? Givin’ up on ensuring they held up on his other demands seemed awfully trusting, and John Not Known for My Trusting Nature Seed was too manipulative to not have ulterior motives. It couldn’t be about getting them away from some site across the Henbane—the Seeds all seemed to keep to their own borders with weird strictness. Which was cool when you shook a tail of five or six peggies in machine-gun mounted Shitmobiles, but gave him the crawling jeebies. He’d asked Dep about it, but they’d just shaken their head and told him not to question the one strategic advantage they had.

John didn’t seem rushed, setting the radio down on the table and leaning against its edge. He drew the knife, looked at the blade and grimaced when it wasn’t to his liking. His fingers dipped into the pocket of his vest, pulling out a white fucking handkerchief and working the cloth over the stains.

Sharky snorted. “Oh man, did I—did I get my gross, white trash cooties all over your special fucking knife? My bad, dude, I am—I am real sorry about that.”

John fixed him with a dead-eyed smile, brows peaked in an imitation of sympathy. “Again, Boshaw, you are a means to an end. Don’t try to elevate your role in this. You’ll just make more of a mess for the poor Deputy to deal with, and, frankly, it’s pathetic to watch.”

“Y-you know what’s, uh, really pathetic here, man, is the fact that you and your bros couldn’t muster up the semblance of common human decency to just…you know. Off yourselves.” Sharky tried to spit again, with more success this time. He’d set a really low bar before, though, and this bloody lob just landed harmlessly on the floor about a foot away.

“Stop talking,” hissed John through clenched teeth. 

Sharky was surprised he’d actually hit a nerve with that one. He hauled himself into a more upright position, eyeing the other man critically. “Listen, I’m curious. Did you guys actually think you were helping, uh, anybody here? Other than yourselves, of course. Because uh, from what I’ve seen, personally, it looks like you’re just a bunch of fucked up idiots trying to take apart anything and everything y’can get your hands on.”

“Your perspective,” sighed John, anger dissipated and replaced with something gray at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Is exhaustingly small. You haven’t been listening to us. The Collapse—”

“Which Collapse is this?” he interrupted, grinning and feeling the cuts on his mouth tear wider. “The Az—uh, Mayan calendar one? That Mormon one where you just shoot out of your clothes and fall up into the sky? Or—oh, oh, do you remember how scared people were about Y2K? Fuckin’ nuts, dude. Some good parties, though, but at the end of the day, the world kept turning.”

John just looked at him, empty eyes steady. “This isn’t Y2K.”

“No shit,” sneered Sharky. “Ya’ll ain’t throwin’ any decent ragers, either.”

To his surprise, John Sick Fuck Seed threw back his head and laughed. A shockingly normal laugh, too, like they’d crossed paths at the fucking gas station and had just hit it off. His smile cut into his cheeks in a way that made Sharky’s heart stutter. Goddamn surreal.

“Fuck, I could use a party,” sighed John, wiping across his mouth and scratching at his chin. He ducked his head, and the new angle made the bags under his eyes more prominent.

Sharky didn’t know what to say, but that hadn’t stopped him before. “Guess it’s, uh, kinda tiring murdering a bunch of people and stealin’ all their shit, huh?”

John arched an eyebrow. “I suppose you and the Deputy would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh fuck off with that, man,” Sharky snorted. “We’re just lookin’ after everyone you and your freaky cult hasn’t succeeded in trampling or turning, and if your dudes come at us guns a’blazing, of-fucking-course we’re gonna take ‘em out. Don’t act like you’re not, like, objectively on the wrong side here, dude.”

“Means and ends, Boshaw.” John cocked his head, mouth working meditatively. “You see the dream of the Father through a very small window. The glass is thick, warped, cracked. You think you understand, but you don’t.”

“Look, just because I don’t buy into—”

_“John?”_ crackled the radio, resignation audible through the static. _“I’ll do it. Where are you?”_

John’s grin split his face. “Green-Bush Fertilizer plant. Tool shed by the gate. I’ll instruct my men to let you pass.”

_“If you’re keeping your guard, I’m bringing my weapons.”_

John tsked, crossing his legs and smoothing his vest. “Where is the trust, Deputy? I thought you cared about your little friend.”

_“I trust you not to fuck me over, and you trust me not to shoot you. Seems fair to me,”_ they replied with an edge. _“Sharky better be okay when I get there, John. It won’t be good for you if he isn’t.”_

“Or what?” mused John, voice going velvety, eyeing Sharky with renewed interest. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Are you going to give in to your basest of instincts? Let Wrath take up the reins?”

There was a heavy sigh. _“I’ll be there soon. Sharky, if you can hear this—it’s gonna be okay.”_

Sharky swallowed, wishing he could hear it in person, knowing he should feel bad, knowing he should try to warn them off or something, anything to keep them from waltzing into this obvious trap, but unable to ignore the weak, needy part of himself that thrilled at the thought of them bursting in with righteous fury. He swallowed the mouthful of blood and spit that had built up and imagined them kicking down the door to the shed, turning John’s smarmy face to an Impressionist painting and cutting him loose, hands gentle but hungry, them needing him to be okay and by their side just as much as he needed them to be there. 

John scowled, changing the frequency on the radio and hissing into it. “Wrath is coming to visit. Welcome them with open arms. No one is to lay a finger on them, is this clear?”

A scattered chorus of acknowledgment from his underlings screeched out.

“And bring me a second chair,” he added, staring at Sharky and smirking.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” Sharky slurred, giving another shot at busting out of the zipties. It worked about as well as his previous tries. “Is-is this just like, a really specific fetish? I mean, you don’t actually think they care about your stupid cult shit, do you? Beyond tearin’ it down, I mean?”

John fixed him with a surprisingly level look, cradling the now-silent radio in both hands. He exhaled steadily, cocking his head. “Have you…ever been to rehab, Boshaw? Therapy? Attended any kind of program for the betterment of self?”

“Fuck no,” he said, bristling. “If they ain’t me, how the hell are they supposed to know what’d make a better me? That’s just dumb.”

John looked up to the shadowed ceiling, working his jaw. “The point is, in order to change yourself—whether you’re stopping a little habit like chewing your nails, adopting a healthier lifestyle with, say, a different diet or starting an exercise regime, or addressing a self-destructive drive that has infected all aspects of your life—you need to change your behavior. Rational thought isn’t enough—you need action, need to lay down the tracks of a new path, feel it in your flesh and bones and blood. Practice. Rehearse the words, the motions over and over again until they come easily. If you fall, get back up. Keep getting back up. Eventually it becomes yours. Second nature. You’ll forget the arduous hours of trying, failing, and will have embodied your new truth.”

His gaze snapped back to Sharky’s, that small, mocking smile spreading on his lips. “They don’t need to care—not yet. But I can help them. I can guide them, step by faltering, agonizing step, and in time, they will walk the path of their own volition.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” Sharky told him, sneering as best he could.

Two hollow knocks on the door, and a Peggie in a long, sweeping coat entered, dragging a wicker chair behind him. It had a shallow scoop of a seat and a low back—one of those pretentious aesthetic pieces those home renovation-types loved to tout because they never actually sat in them, because if they did go ahead and try to sit, there’d just be a lot of creaking while they shifted in search of a comfortable position and then maybe they’d fall over. John didn’t say anything, but his doubtful expression was enough to make the Peggie shrug sheepishly.

“They had a set. Only have stools left if this don’t work.”

“It’s fine, thank you,” said John, in a tone that said otherwise, and waved the other man out.

“So you’re moving away from the Kraven-inspired ski lodge aesthetic and more towards a rustic country feel nowadays?” asked Sharky, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Slapping a few coats of powder blue on your bunker? Trade out those creepy stiffs you got hanging up in garbage bags for some fuckin’ uh, antler windchimes and shit?”

“Are you blabbering because you’re scared, or are you just always like this?” asked John, unfazed by the jab at his interior design sensibilities. He pulled some zipties from his pocket and started threading them through the wicker strands. 

“Aw, and I thought you didn’t care about me, John.” He clenched his fists, wincing at the pain that shot up his arms. “So what’s your real game here? What-what are you after with all this?”

“I’ve already told you, Boshaw, don’t make me repeat myself,” he answered tersely, not bothering to look over. “Don’t hurt yourself overthinking it.”

“Mhm. Fuck you and your asymmetric-ass goatee, man.” He tipped his head up to the ceiling and stared at the bare bulb hanging down like a fat, blinding spider. “If you hurt them and I somehow manage to get out of this alive, I’m going to fucking kill you. I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you will,” said John Condescending Bastard Seed, small smile spreading into something crooked, a threatening glimmer of teeth flashing from beneath the dark beard. “I hope our dear Deputy knows how very lucky they are, to have such a brave and loyal pet. I bet you know some wonderful tricks. Besides getting yourself captured and endangering them, of course.”

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you fuck you fuck—He tried to steady his breathing and failed, blinking at the burning in his eyes. “Just-just don’t hurt them, okay? Please. Christ, haven’t you done enough to ‘em?”

John looked over, eyes alight. “Pain is the path they have chosen. I take no pleasure in the task of shepherding them—”

Liar, liar, liar! He tried to soothe his seething nerves, for Dep’s sake if nothing else, but his voice betrayed him, coming out in a plaintive wheedle. “Then forget it, dude. Let them go east, let them go north—whatever! They don’t have to be your problem!”

“They chose to come back,” hissed John, standing up and coming over, resting his hands on Sharky’s shoulders and pushing his face uncomfortably close. “They came back because I wanted them back, because they are mine. Jacob and my sweet, demented sister don’t know the Deputy like I do, and I will not have them touching what is mine.”

“They ain’t yours, psycho,” replied Sharky, glaring up at those empty blue eyes.

John smiled and trailed his hands up Sharky’s neck, thumbs framing his mouth. “I don’t have time to finish your Confession, I’m afraid. But we can leave a reminder of your sins nonetheless. For you and the Deputy to remember.”

Sharky wiggled and jerked as best as he could, but he only had so much mobility when strapped to a fucking chair, and John’s hands were patient. The youngest Seed moved steadily, avoiding the desperate attempts to bite his fingers as he seized Sharky’s upper lip, expression withdrawn but intent as he slowly started to pull the torn flesh further apart.

Sharky screamed, writhing, trying to get him off, get him away, but John plopped himself down in his lap, bracing his feet on the floor to keep Sharky’s struggling from overturning them. The pressure of his strong thighs and the absurdly clean smell of him mixed with the hot slick and desperate tang of blood and the inescapable, dragging pain of his flesh tearing. He was dizzy with the pain, felt himself rushing towards the edge of a static cliff, spine arcing involuntarily.

A blurt from the radio stilled John’s hands, but Sharky couldn’t hear anything over the harsh, wet gasps wrenching from his own chest. John grimaced in irritation, but let go, wiping his hands cursorily on the front of Sharky’s sweatshirt and going to the radio.

“Repeat,” he demanded.

_“They’re here. They have weapons, but they’re alone.”_

“Good,” breathed John, brows creased in relief. “Show them in.”

_“With their guns, sir? Are—”_

“God will keep me safe. Show them in,” he repeated impatiently, fiddling with a button on his vest. He still had Sharky’s blood under his nails and at the cuticles, a few unsteady lines of scarlet interrupting the ink on his forearms.

Sharky wanted to spit what felt like a quart of blood out onto the floor and tear his throat to shreds yelling out for Dep to fuck it and just kill everybody out there, and John too—nevermind what happened to him. But his lip was on fire and he couldn’t manage anything beyond a vaguely despairing moan. John didn’t react, staring at the door with eyes that belonged to a starving dog, hands flitting from his waist to the table behind him and then back to his pockets.

The door shuddered open and Dep stepped in, shoulders squared beneath a thick jacket, their rifle slung over their back and their pistol ready at their hip. They took in the scene with a resigned frown, closing the door behind them firmly.

“Shark. I’m so sorry about this,” they said, holding his eyes intently with their own, taking a few steps towards him before shooting a glare to John. “I told you not to hurt him.”

John shrugged, petulant. “He talks too much. It’ll heal. Get in your chair.”

They looked to the corner, at the wicker bowl bristling with zipties, and arched an eyebrow. “This?”

“Yes,” hissed John, stretching it out.

“In a minute.” They crossed the remaining space to Sharky’s chair, kneeling down and cupping the side of his face with one hand, giving him a look of acute sympathy, lips twitching with words they couldn’t quite get out. Sharky wasn’t sure if it was out of concern for how John would react or because they really didn’t know what to say, but his gut said the former. The affectionate brush of their thumb over his cheek said enough, and he leaned into it, eyes closing automatically.

“It’s not your fault,” they murmured. “I should’ve waited for you before crossing the Henbane.”

He shook his head, looking pointedly towards John and then at the gun on their hip.

“I can’t,” they said, hand tensing. “I can’t. We’ll be okay.”

He jerked away, glaring at them incredulously, and they looked away, checking where the zipties had secured his wrists and ankles. They dropped a hand to his thigh, squeezing in wordless assurance, and stood up, turning to John.

“Cut him loose.”

John smiled. “Have I told you I admire your resolve, Deputy? I may not exactly agree with your decisions, but you do make them with such certainty.”

“John,” they warned. “I’m here in good faith.”

John ducked his head, grinning. “‘Good faith’—that is an interesting phrase. How is my sister, by the way? Has she danced her way across your path yet?”

“We’ve met. I think.” Dep twitched their shoulders in an uncomfortable shrug. “I feel…sorry for her.”

John’s smile flattened into a disappointed line. “Mm. Have you met many of her Angels?” 

“Too many. I know she’s responsible for-for a lot of truly terrible things, but…” Dep shrugged, raking their fingers back through the stubble behind their ear. “It’s so easy to see the person she could have been.”

“She is our best Faith to date,” allowed John, gesturing toward the chair again. “I just don’t think her methods reflect well on the Project.”

“And yours are unimpeachable?” Dep jerked a thumb towards Sharky. “He goes free, and I’ll get in the chair.”

“I do what is necessary,” said John, sauntering closer to them, small smile fraying at the edges. “Wouldn’t you prefer a quick death to a mindless half-life? Stumbling forever through a world forced upon you? Becoming a tool and a threat, denied the full glory of the Paradise you were conscripted for?”

“So why allow it, John?” They watched him step closer, not moving away. “Have you asked Joseph about the Angels? About what Faith does with the Bliss?”

“‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways,’” said John in a bitter whisper, reaching across the space between them with his bloodstained left hand, fingers waiting in the emptiness, twitching with an unvoiced need. “‘It is not ours to question.’”

“Cut the zipties on his ankles and I’ll sit in the chair, John,” they said, voice level. They looked at his hand, took a hesitant breath, and lifted theirs to take it. He let out a sharp breath, lunging forward to grip their arm just below the elbow, thumb digging into the skin hard enough to make them wince.

“You let him touch you,” he said, staring up at them hoarse and hungry, pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes. “Is your lust so pressing, so consuming that you fill yourself with the nearest—”

They jerked their arm out of his grip, brows crashing together. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to confess, John. Or are you breaking the terms we agreed upon?”

John’s empty hand clenched, knuckles white. “No.”

“Fine.” Rook turned their back on him, kneeling in front of Sharky and pulling a large knife from their boot, cutting the restraints around his legs with speedy flicks of the blade. 

They made apologetic eye contact, replacing the blade with slow, obvious movement so John could see while surreptitiously drawing a small pocketknife from the inside of their jacket with their left hand and passing it to him. He took it quickly, fingers stretching forward and concealing it under his sweating palm. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this was some Indiana Jones shit. Behind them, John was staring at the floor, a muscle working in his jaw.

“I’ve got this, Shark,” they said loudly, then flicked their gaze to his hand with the knife and mouthing ‘just in case’.

He nodded, tapping his feet to get the bloodflow back, and they stood, walking back to John. They kept their head up, but Sharky could see their shoulders were tense. Hunched.

“I’m going to sit down, John,” they said, cocking their head. “After you bind my legs, I want you to cut Sharky’s arm ties and give him safe passage back to my car.”

John’s lips thinned but he nodded, gesturing towards the wicker chair as if he were taking them out to a fancy dinner instead of an incredibly unsexy interrogation with religious overtones.

They settled gingerly, setting off a chorus of creaking that sounded absurd in the small room. John closed the zipties around their legs, hands lingering just a little too long over their ankles and calves. They turned their face towards the opposite corner, as if they couldn’t watch him working beneath them and were too embarrassed to watch Sharky watching him. John finished, sitting back on his heels and tipping his face up, soaking in the sight of the Deputy above him.

He wet his lips with the pink pointed tip of his tongue. “How do I know you won’t leave again?”

Rook’s hands flexed, fingers picking anxiously at the wicker. “Of the two of us, John, I think I’m taking the bigger risk here.”

“I let you walk in with a rifle on your back,” he reminded them, sliding a hand up their hip to tap the holstered pistol at their side. “And this little number. Did you think I didn’t wonder whether you’d use them?”

“I probably should have,” they admitted, and John grinned.

“Trust for trust,” he urged, threading their fingers with his and imploring them to stillness on the side of the chair. “If you want to walk away after, you will.”

They glanced up at Sharky, shame stinging their cheeks. “It’s not just about me.”

John didn’t look back, but he did duck his head, shoulders tensing briefly. “You first. Then him.”

They took a deep breath and nodded, laying their arms as flush to the wicker as they could, letting John secure the ties. They shot Sharky a significant look, mouthing ‘the knife’ over John’s back, and he swallowed the unease rising in his throat. He rotated the pocket knife under his wrist, felt the blade pressing into his skin, and went about maneuvering it towards the edge, lifting his arm as much as the restraints would allow. It wasn’t much, and his tendons screamed as he tried to saw the blade back and forth against the thick plastic. Bad angle—he couldn’t get much force behind it, but he hoped it’d be enough. Shit looked a lot easier in the movies.

He kept his eyes glued to John’s back, waiting for him to turn at any second, but he didn’t.

John went back and forth between Dep’s arms, working his way down to their wrists until he was satisfied. Rook winced as he tightened the last set, but they seemed to be able to flex their hands without too much difficulty.

“There.” John grinned up at them and sprang to his feet, bringing his hands together in a clap that was painfully loud in the small room. “Now we can begin.”

“Sharky,” reminded Rook. “You said you’d let him go.”

“And I will,” assured John, smug and confident now that he had them where he wanted them. “When we’ve finished.”

Rook scowled and struggled against their bonds, producing a chorus of wicker squeals. “That wasn’t the deal, John.”

John laughed and went back to his table. Sharky froze, telepathically urging the other man not to look at him, not to turn around, but he needn’t have bothered. When John did saunter back, scissors in hand, he had eyes only for Rook.

“There it is,” he breathed, searching their furious expression with fondness. “That Wrath. Are you ready to confess it? Before God and your little friend and me?”

“Wouldn’t that be leading the witness?” asked Rook sarcastically, leaning back into the chair as much as they could as John hooked their collar in two fingers. “Did you really want to hear anything from me, or is this just about having a captive audience?”

John smirked and wrenched down and away, popping buttons across the room as the stained plaid parted. “Forgive me for jumping the gun. Patience has never been my strong suit. Please, tell me all about your many, many sins, Deputy.”

They were breathing faster, watching him set their undershirt between the scissor blades and beginning to cut slowly. “I wanted to ask you something, actually. About Seed Ranch.”

He paused, cocking his head. “What about it?”

Rook licked their lips. “Did you have it built before Joseph told you everything about the Project?”

The scissors closed with a harsh snick. “What does that matter?”

“It…looked like you were trying to build a home.”

He snorted. “What tipped you off? The walls and windows?”

“The furniture.” They shifted uncomfortably, breath coming faster. “Sets of four. A fucking doghouse when none of the guards had dogs. Lawn chairs at the vistas, a barbecue pit. Library, fireplace, everything neat and idyllic but empty. When did you stop believing in a happy ending?”

“I hadn’t fully appreciated what it meant to—” he took a steadying breath, leaning back and considering the remains of Rook’s shirt. “To let go of the self-centered thinking of the old world. The flock is my family, and Paradise will be our happy ending.”

“It’s not selfish to want love,” murmured Rook, almost too low for Sharky to hear. “It’s human.”

John’s free hand hovered over theirs, but withdrew decisively, curling into a fist, and he put the scissors on the floor and ripped the last few inches of their undershirt away. “To complacently deny you can be better is to refuse yourself the opportunity.”

“Sloth?” they ventured, arching away from the hand that he splayed on their belly. 

“Mm.” He drifted higher, setting his thumb beneath the tight band of their sportsbra. “Tristitia.”

Sharky’s chest was burning with sympathetic rage, and there was a slight ringing in his ears. He contorted his hand for a better grip on the knife, ignoring the pain as he sawed at the ziptie.

“And what’s acedia, then?” they gulped, staring at the ceiling. “On your hand?”

John froze, withdrawing slowly, dragging light streaks of pressure down their skin. “Apathy.”

Rook swallowed. “Pastor Jerome said it was closer to despair. I understand, John—a lot of people do. Let me help—”

“Pastor Jerome,” hissed John, rising to snarl in their face. “Is a small-town preacher. I doubt his knowledge of Latin is encyclopedic.”

“Is Joseph using—” they grunted as John’s hand connected with their cheek and flinched as he jammed the lower blade against their sternum and cut raggedly, the tight fabric practically flying apart at the touch of the metal. 

The air was thick with shame and rage, the only sound in the shed was the wet rasp of John’s panting. Sharky bit at his cheek, unable to look away from the tight brown circles of their nipples, the vulnerable shudder of their flesh as John slid his hand up their side. Fucking scum. The pocket knife stung at his forearm but he kept cutting. He could feel the plastic weakening when he tested it—he couldn’t stop now.

“Don’t leave me,” whispered John, grabbing their chin and forcing them to look him in the face. “Don’t leave.”

“It didn’t have to be like this John,” they said, eyes red and lips twitching. “I wanted to save you.”

“I have already been saved,” he assured them, dropping the scissors and pulling his knife out. “And you will be too.”

“Is this all you want from me?” they asked, exhausted and sad.

“It gets easier,” he said, not unkindly, letting the tip of his blade dimple their skin, but not cutting. Not yet. “Tell me about your wrath, Deputy.”

“I’m so tired of being angry,” they said bitterly, wetness tracking down their cheeks. “I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of all the pain and the death and the cruelty. I’m tired of finding houses abandoned, bodies of families swelling in the sun, listening to recordings of people scared and hunted and knowing that they’re already dead.”

“And?” prompted John, brushing away the trembling tears that hung along their jaw, ignoring the way they jerked back from his touch. 

“I don’t understand how you can rationalize this,” they whispered, shaking their head, fingers digging into the wicker. “Not just you and Joseph and Jacob and Faith—how did you get so many people to destroy themselves and their families? How do you convince someone to hunt down folks they’ve known their whole lives? This isn’t just—isn’t just a harmless commune. This is wanton destruction. Brutality.”

“It’s your fault,” said John lightly, gripping their shoulder in a parody of camaraderie. “We wanted to do this slowly. Wanted to bring people in peacefully. But your team changed our timescale, and your interference has forced us to abandon that route.”

They sniffed, shoulders hunching defensively. “You were killing people before we came here. Don’t make me your excuse.”

He sighed, sliding his grip to the base of their neck and squeezing. “Own your sins, Deputy. There is no absolution without acceptance.”

They choked, but he didn’t relent until they started struggling, arching against his arm.

“We can work up to that, if it’s too much for now,” he soothed, stroking the length of their neck as they gasped for breath. “No need to rush. I’ve got you.”

“You don’t have to be the person they made you,” they croaked, looking down to him plaintively. “You have so much more than pain to give the world.”

His thumb returned to the hollow of their throat, pressing in again. “Haven’t you been listening, Deputy? The world is a lost cause.”

He let them struggle longer this time, so intent on the heaving of their chest and the desperate crackling of the wicker that he missed the thin snap of Sharky’s ziptie giving behind him. Sharky took a quiet gulp, flexing his hand a few times before starting in on the other one. With better leverage, his main concern was keeping the noise down as he sawed away. He kept one eye on Rook, making sure John wasn’t going too far—not that he had any idea what he’d be able to do if he did. But fuck, they were turning red, eyes bulging, and he had to do something and he had to do it soon.

John surged up, releasing their neck and pressing his forehead to theirs, holding eye contact as they gasped raggedly. His gaze flicked down to the hungry “o” of their mouth and his lips twitched, parting uncertainly. He cupped the side of their face in his hand, breathing harder when they leaned into his palm.

“Stay in the valley,” he mumbled, haunted eyes searching theirs. “You belong with me.”

They whimpered, and he shivered, nuzzling at their cheek, offhand ghosting down the side of their neck and tracing around a breast.

“I want to be the one to save you,” he said, planting a chaste kiss on their brow while his fingers dug sharply into their flesh. “Let me save you. Say it.”

They coughed, shaking their head, and he gripped harder, earning a pained yelp.

The ziptie gave and Sharky froze for an instant, the pocketknife hanging in the air. Rook caught his eye, saw his hands freed, and gave him a slight nod. He got to his feet as quietly as he could, blood thundering in his skull and needles pricking at his wrists and ankles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He considered the pocketknife, but it wasn’t long or sharp enough for him to be confident with it, especially considering that John’s dick substitute was used to flay people on a regular basis. He put it in his pocket and curled numb fingers around the back of his chair.

“Say it,” pleaded John, bruises blooming around his fingers. “You came to me. You wanted this.”

Rook closed their eyes, teeth gritted. “Yes,” they hissed, and John’s pleased gasp covered the soft scrape of Sharky’s sneakers across the dusty concrete.

“Save me, John,” they said, looking guilty and sick, biting their lips into redness. “Save me from my sin.”

“Yes,” he breathed, leaning in and tasting the word on their lips, hand dropping to the hem of their pants and scrabbling to undo the button.

Sharky had spent a good portion of his time while sawing away at the zipties contemplating the right line to drop before taking down John Hipster Sadist Seed, ranging from the classic “Fuck you, bitch” to the more highbrow “Eat shit and die, motherfucker” but when he finally crossed the floor and hefted the hated metal chair over the bastard’s gelled helmet, the words piled up behind his tongue.

“Fuck shit!” he choked out, swinging the chair with manic strength and catching the edge of the seat against John’s skull with a jolt that rattled his elbows.

John slumped against Rook’s knee, and Sharky wanted to hit him again and again until the asshole’s brains were a fine pink jelly under his sneakers, but the surge of energy left him and he dropped the chair with a groan.

Rook’s eyes were squeezed shut, and their chest was heaving.

“Are you—uh,” he stopped himself from finishing a stupid question, shucking the torn remains of his hoodie and laying it over them awkwardly. “Lemme get you free.”

“Thanks,” they muttered. 

He pushed John’s limp body off of their leg, noting the rise and fall of his chest with displeasure. The knife had fallen under Rook’s chair, and he grabbed it, slicing through the ties around their legs with ease.

“How’re we doing this?” he asked, nodding to the door. He had questions, but they could wait, everything could wait until they were somewhere safe and Rook had clothes and maybe he’d gotten a few stitches in his face.

They sighed, watching him work on the ties over their arms. “They’d expect us to-to break for the car. If you’re okay to run, I think we should, um, go for the river. I saw a boat on the bank on the way in.”

“Not too far?” he asked, wincing at the unfamiliar shape of his torn lip. The pain had faded under the adrenaline, but it must be bad. They kept looking at it.

“Shouldn’t be,” they said, accepting the hand he offered to help them up and pulling him into a quick, tight hug. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sharky. Jesus, your face.”

“Don’t be sorry, man, I was born with it,” he joked, feeling his eyes start to burn. They laughed, shaking against him, and he squeezed them tighter. “Fuck, it is good to see you, Dep.”

They pulled back, sniffing and adjusting his hoodie. “You okay to go, or do you need a minute?”

“Think I’ll conk out if we wait,” he said honestly. “You?”

“Yeah, we should get the hell out of here,” they agreed, turning John over with a light kick and bending to search him. “Fuck. The one time he isn’t flaunting that damn key.”

“We should kill him,” said Sharky, blunt. He tapped the flat of John’s knife against his thigh, wondering if bending over would make him faint.

“I know,” they said, grimacing. “But I can’t.”

“Shit, dude, I can do it,” he said, straddling the unconscious man. “Whatever weird thing you two have goin’ on—which, you know, I’ve always got your back and support you and shit—but this guy needs to fuckin’ go.”

“We can’t.” Rook grabbed his arm, eyes sliding away. “We need his key. Hudson and everyone else in that bunker—we’re not prepared to get them out, and without that key it’s downright impossible.”

He sighed, wanting to ask if he could just stab him a little bit, but knowing they wouldn’t like it. “You’re the boss. I’m keeping the knife, though.”

They nodded, working their wrist a bit and then digging into their jacket. “Take these too.”

They pulled out a couple small explosive packs, handing over the detonators carefully. 

“Damn, amigo, what else you got in there?” he tried to grin but his mouth hurt too much. “You pick up my shotty, by any chance?”

They made a show of fishing around in their pocket, then flashed him the middle finger and a weak smile. “Yeah, but I left it in Fall’s End for safekeeping. They’re waiting for us. Hot meal, warm bed, cold drinks, and medical attention.”

“You sure know how to treat a girl,” he cracked, wanting to cup their face and kiss away the lines of tension, but the memory of John all over them made his gut twist.

They must have seen it in his face, because they just patted his arm and unslung the rifle from their back. “D’you want my pistol? Should have enough ammo in this to last me to the river, at least.”

“Sure, thanks.” He took it, checking the safety and practicing the trigger motion a couple times. Hands were stiff, but he could do it. “Fuck, I want a drink.”

“Mary May owes me a couple,” they said, posting up by the door. “Ready?”

He joined them, legs tensed to sprint. “Ready.”

“Go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a daring escape and a sweaty heart-to-heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys were so sweet??? I really appreciate it!  
> so here's some hurt/comfort smut :)

Maybe it was the bloodloss or maybe he was just in shock or something, but the dash to the river impressed itself in his memory as a juddery series of sensations—sneakers slipping over gravel, the bone-jarring thud of nearby explosions, the hot drag of breath scraping through his chest and the sick pulse of his torn lips beating in time with his heart. Bullets buried themselves in the road after his feet, zipped by his head like supersonic mosquitoes and he fired blindly back over his shoulder as he ran in hopes that it’d at least give those fuckin’ Peggies pause before they got him in the back. Rook ran at his side, pivoting back every few yards to empty a few rounds into their pursuers. The staccato muzzle flash cast their face in a shivering strobe, and a distant part of his brain marveled at the glassy shine of the sweat beading at their forehead, the fear-grin that bared their teeth. Fuckin’ Zack Snyder-style slow-mo, all grit and shells spinning to the ground and a sweet song playing over a scene of bowel-loosening violence. Maybe something from The Supremes.

They grabbed his hand, pulled him after them through a blur of brush and towering black trees, and it felt like his feet were possessed—carrying him over what felt like leagues of uneven ground without once turning on a rock or catching in a tuft of weeds, and fuck they were going so fast he could scarcely breathe, let alone hear any of the stuff Rook was hissing out in a harsh whisper as the frantic glare of flashlights from John’s remaining guard stuttered around them. He gulped tasteless air in through a numb mouth, focus narrowed to the slick iron of Rook’s fingers around his wrist, thinking this could be a dream—it sure as hell felt like one—and if it was a dream, they might actually live through this.

They scrabbled down another hill and out of tree cover, and the moonlight fell over everything like a silver fog. He could see the boat Rook had talked about nosed up on the thick grass of the riverbank ahead, only it wasn’t a boat, it was a fuckin’ jet ski because of course it was—no mounted gun for defense, no rubber-smelling floor to collapse against in relief, no goddamn handholds or cover or shit, but at least it’d be fast. 

Thank heaven for small mercies, thank heaven for small mercies ran through his head in an unending ribbon, absurdly in the voice of his Sunday school teacher from too many years ago, and he couldn’t remember her name but he remembered the old chipped cameo she always wore and the scuffs on her shoes and the understanding in her voice when she told him all parents fight sometimes, that only God could be perfect and the most the rest of us could do was try, and if he tried very very hard he could be better, could be good and maybe his folks would have less to fight about. But he hadn’t tried hard enough and the fights got worse and those small mercies added up and up and brought him to this current small mercy, that at least he could die shielding Rook’s back from the bullets that whined after them as the engine guttered, turned, and caught, and then there were more small mercies for him to keep counting as they sped out onto the river, spray soaking his jeans, his hands locked with deathly strength around the miraculously warm and living waist of his friend.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” they were panting, heart thundering against his chest, and he buried his head against the back of their neck in silent agreement, smelling himself and them in the borrowed green ruins of his hoodie. Christ it felt like he’d gone years without sleeping.

“Hold on, Shark,” they murmured, voice buzzing against him. They took a hand off the handlebars and pressed it against his loosening grasp, squeezing in a laughably normal gesture of assurance, nevermind that if things were even close to normal they wouldn’t be together, wouldn’t even be friends, and he’d be drinking himself to death in his trailer, thanking heaven for the small mercy of discount vodka and leftover pizza, and the ragged surge of selfish satisfaction, of perverse gratitude to the fucking Seeds for kicking off this whole goddamn mess and bringing them together, gave him the strength to hug them back.

They slowed as the river yielded to wetlands, easing the jetski around patches of cattails and grasses, and maybe the Bliss had seeped this far west, because he could see white lights dancing ahead, dipping and whirling as Rook guided them through the songs of invisible crickets and frogs. The night air was cool and soft, and he breathed it in greedily, wanting to laugh at the ridiculous plops of fish and the tickling of gnats landing on his neck and face. People thinkin’ the world’s about to end, but good old Mother Nature keeps on keepin’ on.

“Sharky,” said Rook with an edge that meant it wasn’t the first time they’d called for him. “C’mon. Just a little farther.”

The jetski had stopped, something clogging the intake grate, and they had to go the rest of the way on foot. Rook eased his hands away and clambered down, sloshing knee-deep among the reeds and holding their arms up for him to follow. He tried, but it was like his legs were filled with lead, and he tripped, collapsing into their arms with an alarmed grunt. They staggered back a few steps, but kept him from falling into the water, hauling one of his arms across their shoulders and slipping a steadying arm around his waist, and he leaned against them like this was just love after a night of emptying glasses, like it didn’t hurt when he nuzzled behind their ear, planting a clumsy kiss over sweat-filmed skin, like the little laugh they let out in response wasn’t edged with hysteria, like they both hadn’t just caught the mother of all breaks to get out of another encounter with John Let’s Play Cat and Mouse but I’m a Cat with a Fucking Army Seed and still be breathing. 

The resistance to each step lessened as they moved to higher, drier ground, and the looming hulls of white-washed houses sprang out of the darkness and the flush pink sign of the Spread Eagle shone down on them like a sweet neon angel and then he felt the hollow thump of a wooden porch under his feet and he sagged in Rook’s arms as a sweet gust of humid, beer-perfumed darkness opened up in front of them. He heard Rook hollering out as he lost consciousness, and felt a pang of regret that he couldn’t answer. Sorry, hon. Sorry. Gotta go.

He woke slowly, clawing his way up through countless layers of raw cotton, blinking blearily at the florescent light that swayed above him, swallowing though his throat felt bone-dry and his mouth tasted vaguely of blood. Clean sheets were tight against his bare chest, cool on his legs. Someone had stripped him down to his underwear while he was out. His mouth felt huge but crowded, numbness tingling through his nose and lips and down the side of his chin.

“Whub th’fuh,” he croaked, dragging a hand up through the disorientated haze to feel his face. Small, neat knots of suture studded warm skin and he scowled when he realized part of his mustache had been shaved for the procedure. If that didn’t just look fuckin’ ridiculous, he’d eat his fuckin’ flamethrower.

“Don’t mess with those,” warned Rook’s voice from out of view.

He drew himself a few inches up off the pillows and looked over to the doorway, and there they were—leaning against the dark wood frame, arms crossed over a new button-down, skin wan but scrubbed clean. A bruise lay over one cheekbone, a purple kiss against the healthy brown. They smiled, pushing off and coming to his side, pulling his hand away from the stitches as they sat. The edge of the mattress fell with their weight, and he curled his aching body toward their familiar warmth.

“Dude,” he cleared his throat. “They messed with my fuckin’ beard, man.”

Rook laughed, taking his hand in their lap and playing with it absently, rubbing their thumb over his knuckles and along the lengths of his fingers. “Don’t worry—Pastor Jerome read it its last rites before they shaved it.”

“That’s fucked up, Dep,” he grinned, lip buzzing with whatever anesthetic they’d given him. “Y’gonna be mean to a man on his last legs?”

“Shut up, you’re gonna be fine,” they said with a grin, sliding under the sheets and flopping down on their side next to him. “Scoot.”

He obliged, rolling over to spoon them, huffing the clean scent of their hair with a happy sigh and teasing the shell of their ear with his nose. They shivered and pressed themselves more fully against him, warm ass snug against his crotch, feet twining with his ankles.

“Fuck, dude, why the hell’re your feet always so goddamn cold?” he complained, running a hand down their side and digging his fingers down under the scratchy denim of their jeans.

They snickered, pressing icy soles against his shins, and he jumped, sputtering indignantly.

“When is the last time we got to sleep in a real bed?” they asked, struggling with the button of their jeans and shucking them off, kicking them out onto the floor with a thump.

“Uh…” he tried to remember something that wasn’t the way they felt just a few millimeters of fabric away from his dick. Beds? Something about beds? “Whose bed is this?”

They shrugged, turning into him and looking into his face, dark eyes baggy but alert. “Mary May didn’t say. But it’s ours until we’re ready to head out.”

He trained his thoughts away from Mary May’s dead family, exploring the strong curve of Rook’s back, pressing them to him firmly until he couldn’t tell where they ended and he began. Then they arched luxuriously, and it was painfully obvious.

“Um,” he said, fingers trailing down the soft hem of their boxers, palming the smooth skin of their asscheeks. “D’you…d’you wanna be the big spoon, or what? Because, um, I’m probably gonna have to jack it pretty quick here. Uh…unless…?”

“Unless,” they breathed back, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose, then grazing kisses down the uninjured side of his face as he laughed. And then they curled their hips against him and he groaned at how fucking good it was and goddamn was he ever relieved that this was happening again, was he beyond ready for it to be happening again.

He rocked against them a little so they could feel how ready he was, and was gratified to hear their breath coming faster, to feel their arm sliding over his ribs to pull him closer, their flushed face nestling against his neck, teeth scraping playfully at the thick band of muscle there. He shuddered, reaching down between them to massage their crotch through the boxers, working with a patience he didn’t know he had, coaxing them, sinking his fingertips into that blessed heat and stroking languidly until they were twitching against him, whining softly in the back of their throat with need, and fuck did that sweet sound go straight to his dick.

“Shit, Dep,” he gloated, cradling the back of their neck with his free hand. “You are real fuckin’ wet, you know that?”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” they panted, pulling away and shuffling their underwear off. He tucked his hand back between their thighs eagerly, reveling in the soft slickness and the tickle of their pubic hair against his palm. Fuck, he wanted that against his cheek, under his tongue, wanted to taste them again and feel them shaking from their core for him, make them come again and again until they forgot about all this apocalypse shit for a few blissful, exhausted minutes. 

“Now you,” they prompted, gasping softly under his ministrations, and he leaned in, pressing fumbling kisses to the vulnerable shine of their lips, praying that they could feel how much they meant to him through the intensity of his gaze, and that it wasn’t creepy to keep eye contact with their faces so close. Their irises were thin bands of chocolate around black pools and he didn’t want to blink and miss a second of it.

“Mm, the sutures—” they broke off regretfully, cupping his cheek in their hand, brushing the thin scab left from John’s ring with their thumb. “Gotta let that heal.”

“Fuck that, with-with all due respect,” he said, scowling and pulling them back in, planting careful kisses on the bunched warmth of their cheeks, paying special attention to the dimples that appeared when they laughed. His mouth didn’t hurt at all—it was his heart that felt like it was being torn apart slowly, hot and golden, searing with a happiness and a hunger that he didn’t quite know how to articulate, but fuck, it hurt in the best way. 

They hiked a leg over his hip and started rocking into his hand, encouraging him as he slid a finger into their center. His balls ached and he whimpered as they slipped a hand down his increasingly restrictive underwear to glide over his length.

“You’re amazing,” they murmured into his ear as they stroked, rippling their fingers with just enough pressure to make his breath catch in his throat. “You’re so good, Shark.”

He sobbed, cradling them close so they wouldn’t see the tears starting to burn at his eyes and pressed another finger up into the wet heat of them, curling against their wall as his thumb circled their clit. They stiffened, head casting back, murmuring ‘fuck’ in a low chant. Their brow creased, but their expression looked more reverent than pained, so he kept going.

Their thigh tensed and they pulled off his hand, then rolled over him, bracing their hands at either side of his head as they ground themselves against his stiffness, panting lightly.

He wanted to tell them how fucking perfect they looked, how incredibly strong and beautiful and how amazing it felt to hold them and touch them and have them hold and touch him in return, but he didn’t think he could talk even if he remembered how. He steadied their hips, biting his lower lip at the delicious dragging friction over his cock, marveling at how soaked the single layer between them was getting. He slid a hand up the line of their pelvis, fingertips edging beneath their undershirt, and looked to them for permission. They nodded, unbuttoning the flannel and tossing it to the side while he peeled the tanktop beneath up over their chest. They shrugged it off and removed the black sportsbra beneath with a quick, irritated movement. He winced at the dark mottling around their left breast, flushing guiltily at the memory of John’s fingers buried in sensitive skin.

“D’you want me to—”

They shook their head, guiding his hand up to hide the bruising. “It’s fine. Just…gentle.”

He nodded, teasing around their nipple with the lightest of touches, watching it tighten with relief and satisfaction.

“Um. Maybe this isn’t the time, but uh…I don’t think I ever said thanks? Before? And-and I just want you to know that I’m like, grateful to the max for the whole saving my ass thing,” he stuttered, cradling them in his palms and curling his toes in the clean sheets.

They sighed, bending down to kiss his cheek, his stammering mouth, and softly between his brows, arms sliding under his back for a naked hug, which—if you asked him—was definitely the best kind of hug. “You don’t gotta say it. We save each other—that’s our thing.”

“Yeah, but—” he trailed out with a sound best described as a field-mousey squeak as they slid down and freed him from his underwear. “Shit, uh, imagine that was, um…more manly.”

They snorted, hands gliding down his sides, tracing loops and swirls and shit that had no right to be raising goosebumps on his skin, much less to make him shiver outright as their maddeningly delicate touch meandered down, down, tickling at his pubic hair while their hot breath fluttered over his throbbing dick.

“Oh fuck,” he mumbled, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. “Oh shit, fuck, Dep, oh my God.”

“You good?” they asked, flashing him a truly wicked grin, and he nodded frantically, wanting to weep because the sight of them smiling was so beautiful, so right, and the thought that those lips were moments away from making perfect, miraculous contact with his dick just might give him a freakin’ heart attack. 

Honestly not a bad way to go out—he just hoped he’d get the chance to feel it before he punched that one-way ticket to the Lake of Fire. And maybe it didn’t have to happen immediately after, because he’d feel about twenty kinds of bad if he checked out on Rook like that, just leavin’ them with his naked fucking corpse. That’s just bad manners.

They nodded and brought their fist to their lips, huffing into it a few times to make sure their hand was warm, and wrapped their long, strong fingers around his shaft. The groan that their deliberate, rhythmic strokes drew from his chest was low and so desperate that it sounded inhuman, and he shuddered with shame, hot and prickling, almost suffocating. Fuck it had been so long since someone had touched him like they meant it, like they cared.

Their stroking didn’t falter, but their free hand crawled up, found his fisted in the sheets and implored it to open, interlocking their fingers with his and squeezing. He squeezed back instantly, probably a little too hard, but he only had a split-second to worry about it before all thought was gone, just fucking obliterated by the incredible wet heat sinking around the head of his dick, the pointed flicker of their tongue testing, tasting, tracing his veins and gliding around the tip before fucking plunging, and he could feel the back of their throat, and holy shit they were actually humming—was that even possible? He didn’t know, he didn’t know, but it felt so good, that low buzz thrilling through his pelvis, sinking into his bones like lava, like he was the fucking Terminator just dissolving in the heat, melting down in the perfect, blazing glory of a blowjob from someone he hadn’t imagined existing a month ago, much less becoming his best fucking friend, and possibly even his fucking soulmate and please God if there is a God or a Monkey King or what-the-fuck-ever, just let this last, just let them stick around and smile at him and laugh at his jokes and holy shit that fucking tongue—

“Dep—” he managed to choke out when the familiar tightness pinched behind his balls, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, Dep, I’m gonna—”

They backed off with an unholy slurp, leaving him throbbing and cold in their sudden absence, and he whimpered at the loss, hips bucking needfully.

“Sorry, Shark,” they panted, wiping spit and precum from their chin, and he wanted to tell them not to be sorry, never be sorry, but then they were crawling up towards him and sliding their wet center up from his root, pressing over his tip and slowly, unbearably down, surrounding him with indescribable softness, heat, slick walls pressing all around, and then they started to rock.

“Shit, shit, shit, oh man, fuck,” he whined, not daring to move too much in case he just blew his load instantly. “Christ, you are—hf—my best fuckin’ friend, holy shit.”

They grinned, rolling their hips lazily, as if they had all fuckin’ day. “You’re my best friend, too, Sharky.”

Of all the things they’d done in the last fifteen minutes or so, this actually made him cry, vision blurring and wobbling as he blinked furiously. Shit. C’mon, Boshaw, tears are not sexy. He cleared his throat and threw the back of his arm across his eyes as though the glare from the overhead lights was bothering him.

“Hey—hey,” Rook said softly, cupping his face and brushing the wet tracks away from his cheeks. They slowed to a stop, resting with him fully inside. “What’s up? What do you need?”

“Um, I need to ask you something,” he blurted, trying not to think about them tearing away, leaving him raw and aching in his heart and his balls. “About-about the river?”

They frowned, an eyebrow rising up. “Yes?”

“Didja…didja mean it, or was it just like the fire and shit?” he asked in a rush, wincing. “I mean, did you, like, really want me, or was it just a ‘right place, right time’ kind of deal?”

They stiffened, frowning down at him. “Are you really asking me that? Right now? When I’m-I’m naked and on top of you?”

He flushed, shaking his head. “Sorry, never mind—uh, stupid question.”

They sighed, resting their hands on his chest. “No, it’s—I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have assumed you’d just instantly understand. But when you didn’t ask, and we were still cool, I figured we felt the same.”

“I thought you’d bring it up,” he said, hesitantly caressing the underside of their forearms. “An’ when you, y’know, didn’t…I figured you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

“Jesus,” they snorted, ducking their head. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t, it’s just—you have the most inconsistent fucking filter.”

“So—just to be clear,” he grinned, rolling his hips and relishing their surprised gasp at the sensation. “You like this, right?”

They laughed outright, low and throaty as he pulled them down tighter, rocked harder against them. “Fuck, Shark, yes!”

God, he loved seeing them smile, making them laugh, bringing a little fucking light into the horrible shit that was their day-to-day. He’d been happy to do it with stories and jokes, with music and swappin’ bullets with the Peggies, but doing it with his dick was a whole new ball game. He told them to lean back, gripping their arms and using their weight as leverage to thrust, watching them bounce with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. His legs were screaming from the run to the river, his head was starting to pound, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep this going, but Christ on a croissant would it be worth it to keep them up there, head cast back, neck flushed under the dappled bruises.

“You’re lookin’ real good up there, Dep,” he panted. “Just-just thought you should know.”

They rolled their head, licking their lips, and the lazy haze in their eyes was just about the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re so sweet, Shark,” they said, fingers tightening against his arms and hauling him up, their legs wrapping snugly around his back. “You’re so goddamn good. Fuck, of course I want you. We’ve been bunking up for a freakin’ month, and I’ve wanted to kiss your face since day one.”

He surged against them, kissing desperately, needing to taste their words, not caring that the numbness was fading and every flex of his lips was a growing ache. They pushed back against him, breaking off now and then to plant little kisses over his cheeks and brow, and mutter compliments in his ear, and his head was filled with them—every sense flooded with Rook and the rush of their love, and fuck, he was getting close again, the perfect heat and the sweet wet pressure of them was incredible. His spine was on fire, golden tongues arcing across every vertebra, pooling in the cradle of his pelvis and popping sparks against his balls. 

“God, I’m gonna bust, Rook,” he gasped, hands shifting to their shoulders to help them off, but they touched his knuckles and shook their head, grinning.

“It’s safe—if you want.”

He choked, almost losing it. “You sure?”

They nodded, slinging an arm back behind his neck and sinking down, taking him to the root and making eye contact with an intensity that struck him to his core. “Sharky Boshaw, I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you pulsing, I want every last hot, sticky drop—”

“F-uck,” he whimpered, pushing up, pressing his sweating forehead against their warm neck and squeezing his eyes closed against the blinding starbursts, exhaling his fucking soul in a steady stream of wind that curled around their entwined bodies while his balls throbbed and the sweet rush in his gut ebbed. He panted, dropping small kisses down their collarbone as the static cleared from his mind. They hummed, one hand firm at his back in wordless assurance while the other crept up to play with the hair at the back of his neck, tugging with a playful affection that closed his throat.

“You need me off?” they asked after a minute, and even though just starting to soften was enough stimulation to be painful, he shook his head, arms tightening around them.

“Stay. Please.”

He felt them nod, and focused on the moment. As much as he wished they could freeze this shit in time, exist in this perfect blend of sex and friendship and maybe probably kind of love, sharing warmth and breath and space, he knew it was just a reprieve, that they’d have to move on to deal with all this stupid cult stuff and save the world and shit, but until then, he wanted to experience everything as completely as he could, and lock that shit down inside his head for safekeeping. The rhythm of their heartbeat, calming. The smell of their hair, their sweat, the stubble at the side of their head against his cheek. The slight buzz of the overhead light, the dim music floating up through the floorboards from the bar below. The fading numbness of his upper lip, a bittersweet pain seeping in again. The wetness soaking the sheets below them.

Oh shit. He bit his lower lip, not wanting to ruin this, but fuck, he thought he’d told them already, and maybe they’d be lucky. But wouldn’t it be just fuckin’ typical if they came outta this in one piece and this moment, this beautiful, miraculous moment, was what ruined everything?

“Fuck, are we safe?” he winced, feeling the panic mount, words crowding up behind his chest. “I mean, you’re not, like, gonna get pregnant or anything? Not that I wouldn’t—y’know, I’d do right by you whatever happens, Dep—ride or die is for life no matter what, and like, I think I love you? And, uh, I don’t want you to regret anything about this, but um…thing is, both my folks were usin’ protection when I got conceived, so like I probably got superhuman sperm or something—”

“Sharky, hey—Sharky,” they pulled back, cupping his face in their hands and locking eyes seriously. “It’s fine. We’re okay.”

“I just—” he flushed, wanting to just relax into their touch and let it go, but what if they were wrong? A greedy, guilty part of him latched onto the thought of Rook rounding out, of them needing him, tied to him forever, but his gorge rose and he shook his head, willing that nasty, needy shit away. “I don’t want to ruin your life.”

They frowned, shaking their head. “No, it’s really fine. I had that shit fixed. I’m not getting pregnant.”

“But,” he said weakly. “Super sperm?”

They snorted, uncurling their legs from his back and lifting off his lap. “Dude. It doesn’t matter if your swimmers have tiny capes and masks—there’s nothing for them to latch onto. You don’t have to worry.”

“Oh thank God,” he sighed, laying back and staring up at the ceiling. “I mean, not that it would be, y’know—I’m just-I’m just glad you don’t gotta worry about that, y’know?”

They flopped down next to him, slinging an arm over his chest, pecking a meditative kiss on his shoulder. “I got you. Me too.”

“Cool, cool,” he said, shifting on his side and pulling them closer with a grin. “Sorry for the freakout.”

“You’re good.” They scooted up and kissed him on the lips pointedly. “I think I do too. Love you, I mean.”

He flushed, hand feeling clumsy and awkward on their side. “Um. Come again, Dep?”

They grinned, cocking their head. “Thought I missed that? I do actually listen to you, you know.”

He felt the smile spread on his face, warning spots of pain flaring at his sutures, but nothing could detract from the joy bursting in his chest, golden and radiant. “Well, shit. That’s pretty fuckin’ cool, man. Uh, thank you?”

They laughed and rolled their eyes. “Thank you too, you fuckin’ nerd. We should probably sleep, though. John’ll be out for blood tomorrow, and we should really put some holes in Faith’s operation.”

“Whatever you say, chief,” he said happily, watching in giddy awe as they rolled over to hit the lights and curled back against him, shifting and twitching until they were comfortable, and he gingerly put an arm over them as if they’d dissolve like a dream. But they didn’t, staying warm and solid, a quiet air of contentment settling over them like a patchwork quilt—the kind that you’d had ever since you could remember and smelled like the best parts of your childhood, and was somehow light enough to feel good in the summer but also warm enough to nap with in the winter, and even if the patterns and colors and stuff had faded over time, you could still make out the familiar shapes. Fuckin’ cozy.


End file.
